20 Minutes to Oblivion
by Ace Bullets
Summary: Tag for episode 'Clean Hands'. Missing-scenes fic. All she had to do was shoot him... Definite spoilers. Non-shipper story.


**A/N: Again, a spoiler warning for 'Clean Hands'. This fic covers what might have gone on while Agent Delia Semple had alleged serial killer Peter Wilkins under guard.**

**20 Minutes to Oblivion**

The easy part was over. Her earnest entreaties to be of assistance to the over-burdened SRU sergeant had finally been accepted, and Parker actually looked relieved that she'd offered. She hid her triumph and deception well, but then she'd been especially adept at hiding things: it was a skill that had served her well on numerous occasions.

Yes, it was easy throwing suspicion on that moron of a security chief, Broder; easy, even, facing Wilkins for the first time as she took custody of him in her official capacity as the Federal Customs Agent attached to Pearson International Airport.

It was supposed to have been easy _killing_ Wilkins, too. With Walter's military training and her clearance at the airport, it had been a cakewalk secreting a weapon and planning a route where the monster would be out in the open. But the officers on the despicable 'protection detail' were up to the task, frustrating their carefully-orchestrated plans and denying Walter a clear shot.

Agent Semple was glad they had a contingency plan in place. She knew there was always a possibility that Walter would fail. Now she had to carry on with the mission.

She found it remarkably easy relieving constables Sabine and Wordsworth from 'guard duty'. The pair didn't question the sudden re-assignment. Their trust in her was implicit, something else that worked in her favour.

And now she was alone with _him._

Semple stared at the prisoner with contempt. She could do it, right here, as he sat on the cold concrete floor, in a room normally reserved for suspicious entrants. She could shoot him, now, and it would all be over. All she had to do was pull out her weapon, aim, and fire. Easy.

Only it wasn't.

_Peter Wilkins_. Any time she heard those names now, either alone or in combination with another, she experienced a surge of emotions that brought it all back. The names would forever hold a stigma for her; those names would always belong to the bastard that killed her sister, and sixteen other women.

The prisoner sat illuminated in a patch of fluorescent light amid the darkness and shadows. He was rocking back and forth, whistling some unidentifiable, off-key tune. He hadn't even glanced up when she'd arrived and dismissed the SRU officers. His incessant motion was starting to get on her nerves.

Semple remembered vividly the day they'd found her missing sister's body. The whole family had been plunged into darkness and despair. Her parents; Dayna's husband of two years; friends and neighbours... and Delia Semple had shouldered the responsibility of being 'the strong one'. She hadn't even let on to her superiors the turmoil that was raging in her and around her. She had never been one to tolerate weakness in others, so she'd be damned if she was going to exhibit signs of weakness, herself.

Through un-official channels, she'd confirmed what she already feared: that Dayna had most likely been a victim of the serial killer authorities had been tracking. She followed the case closely, but quietly, learning that there was a case building against Wilkins, a repeat sexual offender who had no business being on the streets in the first place. No business _breathing_, either, as far as Semple was concerned. Not after what he did to Dayna, or the other victims.

When Wilkins fled the country, Semple's life slipped further into the darkness. In order to function at her job, she ate her grief and pain, and maintained an iron-fisted grip on her emotions. But the anguish she swallowed daily in order to keep up the facade of normalcy was a bitter pill, indeed. It scoured her insides and rubbed them raw, eroding her sense of justice and morality piece by precious piece, until there remained nothing but an empty shell. Her life dissolved into a single-minded pursuit: finding the animal and killing him, no matter what the cost. It was only in Khartoum that she discovered she might actually have a chance at succeeding when she encountered Walter Volcek...

She looked at Wilkins, laid out like a sacrificial lamb. Helpless, handcuffed and restless under her scrutiny.

With slow, deliberate steps, she approached her prisoner. Her footfalls echoed in the hollow expanse of the room. Alerted by the sound, Wilkins' whistling abated, and he stole a glance up at her, eyebrows furrowed; unkempt, greasy hair falling over his forehead. She'd imagined this scenario so many times, she almost couldn't believe it was actually being realised.

Agent Semple could feel her pulse increasing and her heart beating solidly in her chest. Her hands were tingling, and she felt perspiration building on her brow.

_I cannot lose control _now, she told herself sternly. A few deep breaths later and she felt a renewed sense of calm.

Wilkins had stopped looking at her and was instead peering at something on the floor.

"Do you know who I am?"

Her voice was cold, even to her ears. But that was a good thing. She wanted him to know she wasn't going to be playing 'good cop' with him.

The prisoner's eyes shot up to meet hers. They were dark, and revealed nothing of the thoughts inside his head.

"I said: 'Do you know who I am'?" Semple repeated herself more forcefully. It wasn't a matter of verifying he knew her name and occupation.

Wilkins shook his head swiftly and then dropped his chin to his chest. Clearly he had no clue that Delia Semple was the doting sister of his fifteenth victim.

"I'm the one who's going to put an end to your miserable, insignificant, pointless life, you son of a bitch!" Semple raged.

Wilkins' head snapped up. His eyes held a look of bewilderment.

"That's right," Semple said, taking pleasure in his confusion. "Get it through your thick skull that you're not going to get any more free rides from the justice system; no more slaps on the wrist. Your time is up."

The prisoner went back to his rocking motions, muttering incoherently.

"Stop that!" Semple growled.

The rocking continued, but a little less manic. The muttering petered into silence.

"You're not fooling anyone with your bid for mental incompetency. What you did..." Semple inhaled sharply. "What you _did_...to my _sister_; to Julie Volcek; to all the women you _murdered..._ you are _not_ going to get the chance to plead insanity. You_ ruined_ lives, you bastard!"

Her words seemed to have no effect.

"You killed my sister," Semple whispered stiffly, throat straining with tension. "She was married, and now her husband has _nothing._ Julie Volcek? She was _fifteen_! And then there's Leslie, Jennifer, Anna, and the rest of them...all beautiful girls with their whole lives ahead of them. You sure knew how to pick 'em, didn't you? Seventeen people who don't get to live anymore because of _you_."

Semple wanted very badly to lay hands on him; rough him up. She wanted to make him suffer, knowing that any pain she could inflict would never be able to make up for the pain Wilkins had inflicted. But she knew that she couldn't. If she took out her frustration on him with her fists, it would raise too many questions when they finally carted away his worthless corpse.

Semple knew she was starting to unravel. She knew if she didn't act soon, she would lose her edge, and with that, she'd lose her nerve. That mustn't happen.

"Get up," she ordered Wilkins. Her 'victim impact statement' was over. She never expected remorse from him, anyway. Not that she'd accept any such words of regret or repentance from him. Monsters like Wilkins were never the least bit sorry for their heinous crimes.

"Get up!" Semple bellowed the command once more. When Wilkins still remained immobile, she reached down and grasped his jacket collar, pulling him roughly to his feet. He complied easily, but sagged limply against her.

She smelled his odor, nostrils filling with his rank, unwashed scent. In disgust, she pushed him away, but kept hold of him at arms' length, feeling physically soiled by the unexpected contact. Semple tried desperately to stem the flood of images that penetrated her brain cells from that brief close encounter...

_Don't think about it! Don't think about what he did to Dayna!_

But it was a torrent Semple was powerless to control, breaching her carefully-constructed mental barriers. It was impossible to deny the facts she'd gleaned from the autopsy reports and forensic evidence collected: Dayna had suffered at Wilkins' hands. Hands that were now cuffed had done irreparable harm to Dayna's body. His eyes; his face... it was the last thing Dayna had seen before he'd snuffed out her life. His stinking body that had briefly pressed against Delia's down here in this room... _Oh, God_..._don't think about it... don't think about it... _Semple shuddered involuntarily. It was starting to make her physically sick to be in such close proximity to Dayna's killer.

It was time to finish this. It was time to finish what she and Walter had started all those months ago in the Sudan. She was going to finish it for all of Wilkins' victims and their families. And maybe after it was all finished, everyone could find peace.

"Move," Semple said harshly, prodding her prisoner towards the door. She realised she couldn't kill him in here. That would also raise too many questions.

Wilkins stumbled along, feet plodding unevenly.

She opened the door and checked the hallway before escorting her prisoner out. She propelled him onwards to an exit once she deemed they were not being observed. From there, she decided where she would take him: a sub-level parking lot where she'd be able to do what she'd fantasized about doing for so long.

When they reached the end of the hall, Semple pulled out her ID card and swiped it through the card reader, granting her access to the stairs to the third basement level. Another door, and they were finally in the parking lot.

She drew her weapon and pointed it at Wilkins, instructing him to run. She casually explained that when she killed him, it had to look like a botched escape attempt. That way, she could pretend she was justified.

"_Run!_" Semple screamed. The condemned man took flight. He managed to go several paces before he felt the sure impact of a bullet striking him, the sound of the shot reverberating through the parking garage.

Semple watched in grim satisfaction as her quarry toppled to the dirty ground in a crumpled heap. She felt a lift in her spirits at the sight of his blood, splattered across one of the pillars. She approached him, knowing she now had to take the kill shot.

Wilkins had rolled onto his back and was writhing in pain as she stood over him. His face was contorted in a grimace as his eyes almost pleaded for her to spare him.

"No...please..." Wilkins moaned.

Eyes that she had nightmares about looked back into hers. Semple was slightly annoyed that she had not been able to kill Wilkins on her first shot. But then maybe one shot would have been too easy and swift a punishment for him. He really did appear to be in terrible pain as he gasped for air. Blood seeped from his wound and stained his clothes.

_Had Dayna suffered like this? _Semple struggled to dismiss the unsettling thought.

Unbidden, conflicting emotions started to well up inside her.

_No! Mustn't waver, _Semple admonished herself.

She was doing this for Dayna, wasn't she?... She was doing this for everyone Wilkins' evil deeds had touched. He'd made it impossible for real justice to be secured, hadn't he? He was just going to cop an insanity plea, and with no capital punishment at the disposal of the courts, Wilkins was going to live quite comfortably in prison for the rest of his natural life, on the taxpayers' dime.

Hypothetically killing someone had been one thing. Walter Volcek had seemed born to the task. For Semple, however, she'd never had to pull the plug on another human life. Walter had even expressed his reservations; had questioned her commitment to the mission in the early planning stages. She now felt the return of the indignation she'd experienced then. She'd managed to convince Walter she'd stopped caring about those lines separating good from evil a long time ago.

Semple saw killing _was_ different, though, from the hypothetical scenario she'd played in her head. She'd really just shot a man. Now her blood was pounding in her ears, and her hands were shaky and uncontrolled. But most of all it was those _eyes... _How _dare _his eyes plead for mercy? She forcefully reminded herself they were the eyes of monster who was beyond redemption, not a human being whose life she was intent on terminating.

She issued another command to the injured prisoner: "Close your eyes, and this will be over."

Even through his pain, Wilkins seemed to sense she would not pull the trigger while staring into his open eyes. It enraged Semple that she could be that transparent.

"_Close your eyes!_" she cried out again, but still he refused.

"Agent Semple!"

Delia was startled by the arrival of constables Sabine and Wordsworth. She reluctantly looked away from her prisoner to see the SRU officers armed and closing in on her.

"I just want him to close his eyes," she said plaintively, as if trying to somehow explain her actions.

Wordsworth informed Semple that she needed to put down her gun. The officers had taken up positions several feet away, weapons aimed at her.

_So close... so close... I've come too far to fail now_, she thought. Again she asserted that all she needed was for Wilkins to close his eyes, as her control of the situation was rapidly slipping away from her grasp. She waved the gun menacingly above him, and he still refused to shut his damned eyes!

Constable Wordsworth's voice seemed to come from far away as he informed her they were ready to use deadly force if she didn't drop her weapon. He asked if she understood.

She stood there, irresolute. _I could shoot Wilkins. I don't care what happens next. He'd be dead. That's all that matters, now._

"Delia!"

Another voice shocked her out of her ruminations. Sergeant Parker. Calmly, he asked what she was doing, as if it weren't painfully obvious! It infuriated her further that he tried to talk her down with all the sanctimonious crap about how killing Wilkins wouldn't be justice. What did he know about justice? He didn't _know_ what it was like to lose a sister. He didn't _know_ what it was like to see the pain etched in the faces of friends and family every single day. He didn't know what it was like pretending everything was okay when everything was really broken beyond repair. He didn't know a damned thing.

"Can I tell you what I _do_ know?" Parker asked, and pointed out to Semple that she'd had Wilkins alone for nearly twenty minutes. "You could've killed him by now, but you didn't. 'Cause you're a _cop_; not a killer!"

Some tiny part of her soul shifted inside her, and for a moment Delia Semple thought about the person she used to be. She saw Parker's face, pleading for her to stand down. She looked down at Wilkins' anguished face, pleading for the same. But no matter how she saw him, he was still her sister's killer.

"I was a good cop," Semple murmured sadly, more to herself than to Parker. "I was a good sister..."

The SRU sergeant seized upon that thread, hoping to provide further impetus to reel her in from the precipice. "And you still can be," he said encouragingly.

_No, I can't, _she thought bitterly._ There's nothing left of me now. I'm just dead inside. Now it's just time to make it official._

"No," Semple countered Parker's plea, as she made the decision to raise her weapon to kill Wilkins. "He took that away...Now it just ends!"

"Delia, _no!_" Parker cried, as she moved to pull the trigger.

Semple did not even hear the shot from constable Sabine's firearm that felled her and brought a decisive end to her mission. Her body hit the ground next to Wilkins, her eyes open even in death, never to see again.

**END**


End file.
